


a trace

by skyward_bloom



Series: war of the foxes [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Timeline, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Cullen Rutherford, Religion, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-19 05:10:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22372444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyward_bloom/pseuds/skyward_bloom
Summary: And if Cullen could summon in himself the right sort of fear, the right sort of despair and self-loathing, they could write off his rejection as something simpler. There is nothing simple about devotion.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Series: war of the foxes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627687
Comments: 18
Kudos: 45





	a trace

**Author's Note:**

> > Together we trace out the  
> trail away from doom. There isn’t hope, there is a trail.  
> I follow you.
>> 
>> \- Richard Siken, “War of the Foxes”

Cullen was the one who found him half-dead in the snow, then took him to the camp with shaking arms and shaking legs. No one talks about this, but it happened. It mattered.

He was caught in frantic prayer moments before, a habit to ward off panic more than anything else. _Maker, though darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm. I shall_ —and then his heart stuttered, breath caught in his throat before giving way to a shout of surprise. Relief spread through him like a warm and easy thing, like something close to joy, and that _mattered_. Matters still, even if they (he, the two of them, the Inquisition) don’t acknowledge it.

Strange to remember that now, as the Herald—as the Inquisitor—as _Trevelyan_ holds out a hand, flecked with the late Duchess Florianne’s blood, and asks, “May I have this dance, Commander?”

They can’t. Shouldn’t. Not with the Inquisitor being who he is, and Cullen the commander of his armies, and so many hungry eyes following them as they go through the motions of the Game they both detest. There’s red on Trevelyan’s gloves and coat, and a gentle smile tugging at his mouth, because that’s exactly who he is, sharp edges until he’s not. And Cullen would follow him anywhere, but not here. Has carried him through the punishing mountain snow, cradled to his chest like something precious (because he is, in so many ways), but isn’t strong enough to touch him now.

“I’m not—I don’t dance,” he says, weakly, pleadingly.

“Don’t?” asks Trevelyan. “Or won’t?”

“Can’t,” says Cullen.

“I can walk you through it.”

“We shouldn’t,” Cullen tries now, because it’s true.

He remembers the snow, remembers waiting by the Herald’s—by Trevelyan’s bedroll, despite all protestations, despite his own pounding headache and the slow-fast nausea clawing at him; _The deep dark before dawn’s first light seems eternal, but know that the sun always rises_ , and then Trevelyan’s eyes opened blearily and met Cullen’s for just a moment. Something like joy burst in him then, too, blazing wildly. Joy and revelation.

“We shouldn’t,” Trevelyan agrees softly, easily, letting his arm fall to his side. There’s no disappointment pulling at his features, only a gentle smile of understanding, which is worse.

Worse because of that feeling in Cullen’s chest, big and useless and impossible to ignore, sparked every time their eyes meet. He can’t do anything with a feeling like this. It’s been a long time since he’s even wanted to, and now he isn’t sure how, isn’t sure if he wants to find out.

But the Inquis—Trevelyan is smiling at him like they’re sharing a secret, and that matters.

  
  


There was a time when the touch of a mage would have terrified Cullen. He has trouble admitting to himself how recent that time really was.

Not the case now. Trevelyan stands shoulder-to-shoulder with him at his desk as they pore over maps of Emprise du Lion, and there is nothing frightening about the warmth of his body. Not like that, at least. And if he stands maybe a bit closer than he strictly needs to—well. Cullen isn’t about to tell him off. Even if he still can’t make sense of this.

( _Did you leave anyone behind in Kirkwall?_ Trevelyan had asked. He hadn’t. _No one special caught your interest?_ No, of course not—and Trevelyan had accepted that, hadn’t pressed or insinuated or suggested, so Cullen thought he’d only been asking out of curiosity. Maybe he had. Maybe Cullen is reading into something that’s really nothing. It wouldn’t be the first time. Far from it.)

“Scout Harding will be thrilled,” says Trevelyan. “Red Templars and inclement weather? Couldn’t have asked for better circumstances.”

“There have been reports of dragons in the hills as well,” says Cullen.

“And here I am, eating my words already.”

Cullen chuckles. “None of us are here for glory or satisfaction,” he says. “I’m sure if Scout Harding wanted comfort, she’d have chosen a different job entirely. Fortunate for us that she hasn’t.”

“Very fortunate,” Trevelyan agrees. “We’re lucky to have the people we do, I think. Present company especially,” he adds.

“Ah. Well.” Cullen clears his throat. He can feel his face growing hot at the faint praise, along with every point of contact between him and Trevelyan. He straightens his spine, rests his hand on the pommel of his sword, tries to muster up the regal professionalism that’s led people to mistake him for nobility (a misconception always dispelled when he opens his mouth, letting out the common drawl that no amount of Chantry-led discipline ever managed to rid him of). Wants to retreat behind the mantle of fur around his collar, but doesn’t. Just keeps his gaze down on the maps, the effort of remaining so close to the other man an unspeakable strain. “I’m glad my efforts for the Inquisition—”

“Not because of that,” Trevelyan interrupts. “I do appreciate your work, Cullen, but—” His arm moves. A hand curls just above Cullen’s elbow. Voice turns soft and unmistakable. “I wouldn’t want you to think it’s the only thing I appreciate.”

 _Oh_.

“You’re not—joking,” says Cullen, heart thundering all at once.

“Not in the slightest.”

“I—” Cullen licks his lips, then turns and lets his eyes flick to Trevelyan only briefly, too fleeting to get a sense of his expression before darting anxiously away. “This is—”

“Have I misstepped?” The hand loosens its grip to just a whisper of a touch. “If I have, please, tell me.”

“You—haven’t.” And Cullen wishes now that he could call this fear, that an unexpected, intimate sort of touch from a mage would stir in him a rational reaction. It isn’t rational at all. Just embarrassing and inexplicable and pathetic. He says, “It would be easier, perhaps, if you had.”

“Easier?” says Trevelyan, sounding amused. “Seems just the opposite.”

“You’re the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, and I—” Cullen cuts off sharply and sighs, sagging, tension and dignity leaving him in equal measure. His eyes fall shut. This, more than anything he’s ever done before, feels like cowardice. “I would serve you in any way I can. More than that, I cannot give.”

“I don’t want to push you if you’re uncomfortable,” Trevelyan starts.

“That isn’t—”

“I just want to understand. Is it my title? _Titles_ ,” he amends, grimacing.

“No,” says Cullen. Then, “Yes. I suppose. What you represent to the people is—” He stops, tries again. “I will not distract you from your duties.”

“What I represent to the people,” says Trevelyan, disbelieving, indignant, like he has an argument waiting to curl off his tongue, a diatribe against duty and respectability.

“To everyone in Thedas who believes in our cause,” says Cullen. “And… to me.”

The silence lasts for two heavy seconds. It’s enough.

Trevelyan says, “Ah,” and it’s not even a word, really; just a single syllable of defeat.

The hand falls away, but he doesn’t make to leave just yet. It takes a moment still for Cullen to find the courage to turn and face him fully, and when he does, he finds Trevelyan looking away, now taking refuge in those same maps on the desk.

“You’re not making excuses because I’m a man, are you?” asks Trevelyan. “Or a mage?”

“No.” Those are very small parts of the truth, things he could be persuaded not to care about. Surmountable barriers to what he wants.

“Well.” Trevelyan purses his lips. There’s something he wants to say, clear in the half-breath he takes in, the way he opens his mouth and pauses, but doesn’t. Says instead, “At least there’s that.”

Cullen’s struck with a dull pang of remorse in spite of himself. “I apologize if this—”

“You have nothing to apologize for. I’m the one who put you in an awkward position.”

“You did no such thing.”

Trevelyan hums.

If the circumstances were different, Cullen would do something foolish. Take one of Trevelyan’s hands, press a kiss to the knuckles, declare his earnest affection so there could be no doubt of what he feels. He can’t—or could, but won’t. And it’s made painful by the knowledge that he could come to love this man, genuinely, as much as the ramshackle fragments of his heart are capable, if he gave himself the opportunity. But it isn’t possible. Not like this.

And if Cullen could summon in himself the right sort of fear, the right sort of despair and self-loathing, they could write off his rejection as something simpler. There is nothing simple about devotion. It isn’t the blind, thoughtless thing the Chanters preach, nor the ready acceptance of light in a hopeless void. Sometimes it is darkness. Sometimes it is a man trying his best. Sometimes it is snow, and a body on the snow, and what the snow has taken.

“We’ll leave this behind us, then,” says Trevelyan, surprisingly decisive. “No point in making things unpleasant.”

“Of course,” says Cullen, because obedience is such a simple thing that he doesn't need to think about it at all.

“Distance should help. I’ll be out of your hair these next few weeks anyway, out in the Dales.” Trevelyan drums his fingers on the map, like a reminder. This was what they were meeting for. This is the reason they’ve been standing here, shoulder to shoulder, both hunched over to try to make out the spidery lines under the dim light of the sconces. It’s a matter of duty. It always is.

“That’s hardly necessary,” says Cullen, then fumblingly adds, “The distance, not—not the Dales.”

Breathing out a laugh, Trevelyan says, “For you, maybe.”

There’s a pause where nothing is said or done by either of them, both waiting for something, or holding back, or some combination of the two. Then it breaks, and the brush of Trevelyan’s hand on Cullen’s cheek is painfully gentle. So are his footsteps when he leaves, and the closing of the door behind him. So is the absence of him, soft and unfair.

  
  


Josephine calls it _la splendeur des coeurs perdus_ , even though Cullen didn’t ask, had no plan of ever asking. He cuts off her explanation, saying, “Respectfully, Ambassador, I don’t care what the bloody Orlesians have to say about it.”

“But there’s a certain poetry to the idea, wouldn’t you say?” says Josephine. They’re in her office, her territory, because Cullen made the mistake of stopping outside the war room to listen when she asked for a word with him, and isn’t that always how these things start? Through the mistake of offering courtesy? “The beauty of a mutual longing that, while acknowledged, cannot be consummated?”

He scowls, and it tugs at the scar trailing up from his mouth. “Not particularly, no.”

She heaves out a sigh. It’s a sigh that says _The problem with Fereldans is that they have no appreciation for the allure of misery_ , the same one he hears when he grumbles over fashion or theatre or serving sizes that are entirely too small. He’s a simple man with simple tastes, and the simple desire to be content. Since he can’t have contentment now, he’ll settle for stoically ignoring his displeasure, compensating by working himself to death if he has to.

There’s no point in asking how Josephine even knew about this private, secret, delicate thing, just as there was no point in asking how Leliana knew, or Varric, or Dorian, or the agents who gave him pitying looks while relaying information on enemy troop movements. Nothing that’s secret stays secret for long here. It would bother him more, perhaps, if he’d had any false illusions about making a life for himself, having ambitions and chasing whims, doing things that necessitated privacy at all. Even if they know how he feels and what he is and isn’t doing about it, it doesn’t—

No, he can’t say it doesn’t matter. It does. It all does. But it doesn’t have to change anything.

He takes the long way back to his quarters, one that’s less populated, meandering, inconvenient. Somewhere along a deserted section of the ramparts, a soft wind carries a whisper to his ears. It says, “Waiting, wistful, wanting, still trapped in thoughts of things that shouldn’t be, but could. He wonders how it would feel if you kissed him. He knows you do, too.”

The memory of the words is gone before it can even form. Cullen is left thinking, sore-hearted, about snow, leather flecked with blood, the tangible aura of magic that doesn’t feel as threatening as it should. _In your heart shall burn an unquenchable flame all-consuming, and never satisfied_. When he retreats into the dim, stuffy room, his thoughts keep returning over and over to the gentle curves of Trevelyan’s mouth, and he isn’t certain just why.

  
  


“I should be taking it,” Cullen says again, ragged, subdued, because it’s a terrible, obvious truth. Is it a sign of strength to admit to weakness? He wishes he knew.

“This doesn’t have to be about the Inquisition,” says Trevelyan. His tone is firm, not soft and coddling, for which Cullen is immeasurably grateful. “Is this what _you_ want?”

It’s never mattered before what Cullen wants, and he doesn’t know why that should change now. And it’s moot anyway, because what he _wants_ is to be useful; what he _wants_ is not to jeopardize their mission, or disappoint all the people who’ve put their faith in him. He doesn’t know if that can be reconciled with the few personal desires he’s allowed himself.

But Trevelyan always insists, adamantly, that every member of the Inquisition and every soul it protects is a person. Feelings and wishes, fears, weaknesses—those are important to him. He cares so much it’s a blessed miracle he can make it through a given day without crumpling under the weight of everyone’s collective woes.

So Cullen indulges in a moment of selfish honesty: “No.” Still, he feels the need to qualify the reply, going on to say, “But—”

“No,” Trevelyan interrupts. “You’ve already given your answer. That you don’t want that for yourself is reason enough, Cullen.” His gaze softens, as does his voice. “But I can’t tell you what to do, nor would I want to. If sacrificing your happiness seems worthwhile to you, all I can do is disagree.”

“You would think less of me if I gave into temptation,” says Cullen.

Trevelyan shakes his head. “I wouldn’t. There are very few things that could make me think less of you.” His mouth twists into a wry smile. “You’ve done too good a job endearing yourself, I’m afraid.”

The tender sadness in Trevelyan’s gaze is so pronounced it’s overwhelming. Josephine and Leliana have both complained, for different reasons, that he wears his heart too much on his sleeve, makes his feelings too plain and exploitable. That level of earnestness is dangerous in a leader. But the Inquisitor had never asked to be elevated like this, and he couldn’t easily change these things about himself regardless. And Cullen—he wouldn’t want him to. Even if it’s difficult. Even if it’s terrifying. Even if, in moments like this, the profundity of the other man’s emotions takes him over, invades him, ruins him all over again.

“If I cannot endure this,” Cullen begins.

“You can.”

“How can you be so certain?”

Trevelyan’s fingers graze feather-light against Cullen’s cheek. The brief warmth of his hand is almost scorching, yet still freezes Cullen in place, renders him breathless and immobile. “Because,” says Trevelyan, “you have an unparalleled strength of will, and you wouldn’t still be here if you were easily broken.”

In this moment, Cullen does not feel strong. He covers Trevelyan’s hand with his own, curls his fingers around it, closes his eyes as the other man squeezes back. The fragrance of floral soap makes the lingering memory of lyrium on his tongue that much less potent.

No matter what Josephine might say, there is nothing splendorous about the ache in Cullen’s chest. His affections are only so powerful in spite of the pain they cause, not because of it, and the idea of someone choosing to feel this way—delighting in it, rejoicing in it, holding it up as something beautiful—is unthinkable to him. But nothing about the situation has changed, so the pitiful charade continues.

“You’ve survived worse than this,” Trevelyan murmurs.

“I know,” says Cullen. Then, “As have you.”

“Only with your help.”

Cullen’s eyes flutter open and meet Trevelyan’s. He says, “I’ve given no more than anyone else has.”

Trevelyan chuckles. “You saved me from freezing to death on a mountainside, you twit. I think you’re allowed to take credit for this one thing.”

“Oh.” Cullen flounders. “It’s—I didn’t think you—”

“Let me say something now.” Trevelyan pulls his hand carefully away, taking Cullen’s with it, but doesn’t let go. He takes it in both of his own hands, encasing it, trapping it, grasping it reverently. “I know what I am, as well as what I’m not. Anchor or not, I’m only a man.”

“That—”

“Still,” Trevelyan continues, “I know I’ve been chosen. Not by Andraste, but by her people. It’s a terrible burden and a great honor, and I wouldn’t diminish it.” Even through his glove, Cullen feels the press of Trevelyan’s thumb as it strokes against the back of his hand. “But whatever I mean to you, I want you to understand what you mean to me as well, Commander.” Then, softly, “Cullen.”

Shivering, Cullen swallows back every inconvenient word that nearly rises out of him and says instead, “And what am I to you?”

“A brave man and powerful soldier. A symbol of what the Order could be. A savior to me and so many others.” And now Trevelyan’s eyes flick down, unmistakably, to Cullen’s mouth. He murmurs, “My light in the shadows. My darling, if you’ll have me.”

Trevelyan’s name falls hoarsely from Cullen’s lips. One or both of them leans in closer. He isn’t sure which. Just feels warm breath whispering against his skin, and the blissfully fervid beating of his heart, and—and Trevelyan peeling away the glove on his hand and letting it fall to the floor. Cullen lets his bare hand be guided to the other man’s chest and held flat against it, over Trevelyan’s own racing heart.

“I don’t know if we have any hope of survival, and I know you don’t, either,” says Trevelyan. “But if there’s one thing I can let myself believe in, it’s you.” He leans in closer—and yes, it’s him moving this time, Cullen is distantly aware of this. “ _Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed, yet I see the Light is here_.”

Cullen kisses him with the clumsiness of someone who hasn’t kissed anybody, or even wanted to, for a very long time. Teeth clack and heads tilt at the wrong angles, lips misalign, but he can still feel Trevelyan’s pounding heartbeat, and the shape of his grin, and how he leans in eagerly to kiss back, sighs as Cullen clutches at the front of his shirt. It’s the first time Cullen’s kissed a man, or a mage, or a noble, or a _hero_ —but all of these things, already so insignificant, become less important with every passing second.

When they break apart, Cullen rasps, “You realize that was blasphemy.”

Trevelyan lets out a delighted laugh, resting his forehead against Cullen’s. “Ah, the perils of wooing a Chantry boy,” he teases. “Will you have me anyway, blaspheming and all?”

“I will,” says Cullen. There’s joy flaring in him now, too, not bigger than when he found the helpless body on the snow against all odds, but different. Equal. Not the wonder of salvation, but of something he isn’t yet brave enough to name. “Maker help me, I am already yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> hello! this is from an idea i had quite a while ago, revolving around different lines from the poem "war of the foxes" and how much i could hurt myself by writing fics about them. this one was half-finished, so i decided to wrap it up and make some changes and. well. *gestures vaguely*
> 
> i'm maybe probably hopefully writing more of these. different universes, different inquisitors, a few different LIs. we'll see how things shake out i guess!


End file.
